


Through the Same Places

by Azzandra



Series: Through the Same Places [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fall of Tevinter, Future Fic, New Elvhen Empire, Relationship Status: It's Complicated, some shit went down and now look where we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzandra/pseuds/Azzandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The message the Inquisitor received did not reach Skyhold by raven. All it said was, “Minrathous situation has reached a conclusion. Attend.” The scarcity of details was, she knew, a deliberate enticement. She did not enjoy court, but if she wanted to know more, she would have to go to Arlathan herself.</p><p>--</p><p>The Tevinter Imperium has fallen, and a new Elvhenan has risen in its place. There are complications, both personal and political.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Balance of Pride

_But after the first wave of petty gratification at seeing the Imperium brought so low, the other human nations were gripped by a burgeoning worry. For was there not an alienage in every city worth mentioning? If you searched from one edge of Thedas to the other, would you find a single noble human house which did not have elves toiling thanklessly under their roofs, in servitude only half a step removed from Tevinter's slavery? If you scoured the lands, could you find a street or alley, a road or house which had never witnessed the utterance of that vile phrase, 'knife-ear'?_

_After striking down Tevinter, they wondered, who among them would be next?_

 

\--Phaedra Lavellan, “Tales From the Refounding of Arlathan”, 9:57 Dragon/9 RA

 

* * *

 

 

The message the Inquisitor received did not reach Skyhold by raven. All it said was, “Minrathous situation has reached a conclusion. Attend.” The scarcity of details was, she knew, a deliberate enticement. She did not enjoy court, but if she wanted to know more, she would have to go to Arlathan herself.

There was no helping it, so there was no reason to prolong the wait. Rhiannon Trevelyan put on her armor, slung her staff across her back, and, unaccompanied, slipped through Skyhold's eluvian.

She stepped out again into the halls of the Arlathan Palace. The green-clad sentinels on either side of the eluvian did not stir to acknowledge Rhiannon, possibly because they had been warned she was coming, though more likely because they'd grown used to the frequency of her visits. But the wolves by the sentinels' sides swiveled their ears towards her, and their nostrils flared.

She ignored the sentinels with equal aplomb, and left to find the Grand Hall. She knew the way to Fen'Harel's throne room by now.

She passed servants on the way, elven but not invisible—these were not the same shrinking creatures who once scurried in the shadows of human palaces and mansions. With a new land to call their own, and a new sense of self-worth instilled in them, they held their heads up and met her gaze without being cowed.

The closer she came to the Grand Hall, the more the sight of servants was replaced with Emerald Knights and petitioners of various stripes, and surely enough, she soon arrived at the imposing set of double doors she sought. They were grand things, depicting the recreation of Arlathan in delicate stylized engravings. The new Arlathan was not a place of crystal spires, but it had an elegance of its own, brought about by the working of elven hands in wood, wrought iron, glass and marble. It was, even Rhiannon had to admit, an impressive achievement, even though she might not care for its price.

The doors opened smoothly for how heavy they were. She did not intend to make an entrance, but eyes were drawn to her anyway. She wore her field armor, in stark contrast with the courtiers' fine clothing, and even with the Emerald Knights' subtly embellished armor.

And she was human, of course. In a room full of nothing but elves, that set her apart more surely than anything else. The Veil was thin in Arlathan, elven devices maintaining a constant state of Setheneran. Most humans could not bare it, and Rhiannon herself only did because of the Anchor, so it was the rare human diplomat who still felt slighted at not being allowed to visit Arlathan.

Rhiannon made her way towards the front of the room, elven courtiers pulling out of her way with cold looks. Most of their attention, however, was focused on Fen'Harel up on his dais. Next to his tall seat—an object Rhiannon would have more readily called his _throne_ —there was also a desk, laden with books, artifacts, and loose papers.

It was, in some perverse way, much like his desk in the Skyhold rotunda, and Rhiannon was uncertain how she felt about the similarity. Perhaps it stung. It was still a discomfort to think of Fen'Harel and Solas as the same person, though observing his mannerisms from afar, it was harder not to. He was far from the simple man he used to pass himself as—practical woolen clothing was now replaced by rich robes, dark green and trimmed with black, and instead of painted walls, there were now intricate tapestries surrounding him, depicting scenes of elven triumph. Here, truly, was the heart of New Elvhenan.

Fen'Harel listened to the Commander of the Emerald Knights report, frowning slightly as he gave her the full weight of his attention. To her credit, Ser Lirien was not nearly as unnerved by the Dread Wolf's presence as most Dalish would have been, her voice dry and even as she recounted the events of the morning.

“--the officer on duty didn't think it was a ploy,” Ser Lirien was saying as Rhiannon approached, “but they didn't want to take any chances, either way, so they took along a couple of Smiters. Poor sod who delivered us the message crumpled like a brittle leaf when he got Silenced, and if he's anything to go by, there probably isn't much of anyone left in the city who could put up any resistance now.”

Fen'Harel spotted Rhiannon at that moment, and gestured for her to approach. Wordlessly, Rhiannon walked up next to Ser Lirien.

The elven woman was shorter than Rhiannon, but her armor, befitting a warrior, gave her a more dangerous air. She had gray in her dark hair, and her eyes were striking green despite the crow's feet at their corners, and in some ways Rhiannon found Ser Lirien more intimidating than even Fen'Harel.

“Ser Lirien was just reporting on the situation at Minrathous,” Fen'Harel genially informed Rhiannon.

“You didn't miss much,” Ser Lirien drawled as she gave Rhiannon an even look. “They sent a messenger out this morning. Got picked up by our soldiers manning the watchpost. As I was just saying, the Archon wants to set up a meeting to deliver his surrender.”

A murmur went through the room at that last word, as excited courtiers turned to each other with bright faces. Minrathous was the last bastion of resistance, and with its fall, the Tevinter Imperium was well and truly replaced by Elvhenan.

Rhiannon kept her expression impassive.

“And this meeting, it's been set up?” she asked Ser Lirien.

“It has,” Fen'Harel replied instead. “You are to be there as well.”

The whispering intensified this time, enough that the lazy wisps floating near the tall ceiling of the room became agitated.

“I am?” Rhiannon said mildly.

“Your Inquisition has taken responsibility for the refugees of Tevinter, has it not?” Fen'Harel asked, almost amused. He gestured dismissively. “Take them off our hands, if you please. As soon as their surrender is accepted, I wish them evicted from Elvhen lands.”

_Evicted_. Such a dry, clinical term, much like _culling_ , or _annulment_. Easily skating around the death and suffering of the reality. But he was not wrong. The Inquisition had the expertise to deal with refugees, and between her and Dorian, there was hardly anyone else more qualified for the task. They'd been doing little else other than relocating refugees since the war in Tevinter started.

She briefly considered making some mocking answer, but dismissed the notion. The petulance wouldn't have been even momentarily satisfying. His flippancy was not personal, he was playing to the court.

So instead, she inclined her head, coldly professional.

“I will make preparations,” she said. “When is the meeting?”

Fen'Harel smiled thinly.

 

* * *

 

It was the smell that got to Rhiannon. In the oppressive northern sun, the vile stench Minrathous had developed since the beginning of the siege was worsened. It carried even on the anemic breeze to the Elvhen watchpost on the opposite shore. Ser Lirien did not seem to be overly bothered by it. She stood impassively by Rhiannon as the latter looked at the image projected by the outpost's scrying device.

They said the walls of Minrathous were unbreakable. Perhaps that was true. Neither the first slave-led elven uprisings nor the subsequent sweeps by Fen'Harel's more organized forces ever tried to take the city.

Instead, the elves systematically cut off every line of supply the city had. The aqueducts were shattered, the ports were put to torch, the underground routes all collapsed. The city had had its own cache of supplies, of course, enough for a year. With rationing, they probably managed to stretch it out to three.

But the fighting had been over for five years, and the very last paltry supply line had been wiped out four years prior.

The war with Tevinter was still going on, legally and on paper, only because Minrathous still stood. But from the stories Rhiannon had heard, their most steady food source for a long time consisted of seagulls, and now the birds had learned to steer clear of the city.

Beyond that, it was anyone's guess what they'd been feeding on. _Each other_ , the elven courtiers would titter, amused by the fitting justice of it all.

Ser Lirien did not titter. Just like Rhiannon, she knew it was a distinct possibility, once every crumb was eaten, once all the animals were gone, and once all the leather in the city had been boiled for stew. She knew, also, that the last Tevinters in Mirathous had been the most rich and powerful figures in Tevinter, along with their families, and whatever prized slaves or retainers they could sneak in, some of them possibly elves. Ser Lirien knew who'd be first on the butcher's block if it came to that.

And through whatever horrors played out between them, the impenetrable walls of Minrathous stood tall and intact.

“The Archon is still alive,” Ser Lirien remarked.

“Is he going to be delivering the surrender?” Rhiannon asked. The scrying device showed the gates of Minrathous, sealed shut for now. They would soon open, and the Tevinter representatives would make its way across the stone bridge to meet their Elvhen counterparts.

“If all goes well,” Ser Lirien said neutrally.

“I almost hope it won't,” a new voice intruded, “because if anything goes wrong, it will only be for them.”

Rhiannon and Ser Lirien turned in one motion, and were faced with General Victus, leader of the initial slave rebellions which rose in the wake of Fen'Harel's rise and the ensuing chaos: a war hero to the freed elves, and now leader of Fen'Harel's own armies.

His former status was more than apparent in the brand marring his cheek, but when he swaggered towards Rhiannon and Ser Lirien, it was while wearing fine red robes and a gem-encrusted sword more decorative than practical. He made both Rhiannon and Ser Lirien look like paupers in comparison.

But Ser Lirien was inexplicably fond of the young peacock, and considering Rhiannon's closest friend was Dorian Pavus, she did not feel she had room to judge.

“If you're looking for game, I think hares would make better sport,” Ser Lirien said. “At this point, they'd certainly put up more of a fight than these shades.”

“If they try to fight, I'll handle them,” Rhiannon said.

Victus squinted at her.

“What, the whole city by yourself?” he asked, grinning.

Rhiannon tilted her head, as if thinking about it.

“Sure, why not?” she shrugged, and turned her attention back to the scrying device.

There had been no change in the image it showed. She was tempted to ask if it was working right, but it was only her anxiety acting up, and anyway, was unlikely anyone there even knew how the device worked; it was something Fen'Harel scrounged up, some relic of the past.

General Victus snorted derisively. Rhiannon continued watching, and kept her silence. She did not think there was any fight left in Minrathous, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Archon Venalis needed the support of a lackey to make it the whole walk across the bridge, though by the time they reached the waiting delegation, the two looked as if they were hanging off each other. They were emaciated, their eyes sunken, their cheeks hollowed out. They shivered even in the heat, and Rhiannon felt a pang of pity for the man.

By comparison, the arrayed Elvhen and Inquisition forces seemed to loom over the two men.

Venalis spoke the words of surrender in a pained rasp. When the Inquisition notary had him sign the official document, his hand shook and his signature turned to blots of ink. But it was still valid, the notary declared, shaken by the state of the once mighty Archon.

It was the Inquisition forces that marched into the city, soldiers and healers both, to handle the survivors.

Rhiannon stood behind, and pulled the Archon and his companion into the shade of a building. There were Emerald Knights watching them, steely-eyed elves with wolves by their sides, ready to tear them to pieces if they tried anything.

Rhiannon did not believe it would come to that. She passed flasks of water to the two Tevinters. They sucked it down greedily, spilling over their chins and down their fine robes.

“We ran out of water three days ago,” Venalis's companion explained. He had the same eyes as the Archon, a washed-out blue. “They... they tainted the source, to force our surrender.”

Rhiannon didn't ask who 'they' were, because she suspected that it was not the elves who did it. If the Archon and his trusted looked like this, she could only guess how well the rest of the city fared.

Venalis's hand shook, and he could no longer hold up the flask. He dropped it to the ground, sighing heavily.

“And so Tevinter has finally fallen,” he said, his voice not quite as raspy anymore.

“Tevinter fell years ago,” Rhiannon replied. “You were merely in denial about it until now.”

A stony silence followed her words, both Tevinters staring at the ground with a new slump to their shoulders. They had nothing left, anymore. Not even their pride.

 

 


	2. The Vagaries of History

_It was a fitting choice, then, that New Elvhenan should rise within the borders of Tevinter, as a flower might bloom within the ribcage of a rotting corpse. In the days of old, Tevinter too had consumed the remnants of Old Elvhenan and grown prosperous by stripping its bones. Now they find themselves pushed aside and evicted from the lands they once conquered, their homes taken, their pride shattered._

_The arc of history is an outward spiral. Inevitably, it circles around itself and takes us through the same places._

 

\--Declan, Keeper of Clan Sathoris, speaking at Arlathvhen, 9:55 Dragon/7 RA

 

* * *

 

 

The difference between Dorian and Archon Venalis could not be more stark than when they sat opposite each other at the table.

The years had not exactly been kind to Dorian. His face was more lined than when Rhiannon first met him, and his temples had started graying just a bit, even though he was barely middle-aged. But he wore the trappings of maturity well and with style, and so they only served to give him a more distinguished air.

Archon Venalis was simply a wreck. He hadn't been terribly old when he succeeded Radonis, but now he looked like a man with one foot in the grave. His hair was thinned out by malnutrition, clinging to his head in sparse pale clumps, and his skin sagged on his bones. Famine had taken a toll on everyone in Minrathous. Inquisition healers did all they could, but it was plain to see that Venalis would never fully recover from the experience.

Dorian pushed the stack of documents towards Venalis, and then folded his hands on the table top, waiting at the latter inspected their contents.

“Archon-in-exile?” Venalis spoke, perhaps aiming for mocking, but coming across as merely angry.

“Yes,” Dorian replied, his expression grave and his tone flat. “Funny little joke, until it wasn't. You see, strange thing about becoming the ruler of a people is, they actually expect you to rule!” He turned to Rhiannon, pulling a shocked face. “How utterly astounding, wouldn't you say, Inquisitor?”

Rhiannon remained silent. She was, technically, a neutral party in this. She had to let this play out between the two men. She certainly did not intend to get in Dorian's way when he was on a warpath—he tended to lash out indiscriminately when he was this angry.

Venalis worked his jaw, displeased but speechless for now. When the course of the war turned, he'd been among the first to flee and hide in Minrathous, leaving the Tevinter people to fend for themselves while he planned to wait out the war in comfort. As far as Dorian was concerned, it was a black mark Venalis would never live down.

And he was right. “Archon-in-exile” had been a joke, for a time, until it became very much _not_. Dorian was bred and educated specifically to bear the title of Archon one day, and while he could never have guessed the horrific circumstances under which he'd receive it, he had risen to the occasion with grace and competence.

“What is the legal basis for this?” Venalis finally asked, pointing a reedy finger to the documents.

Dorian gave Rhiannon a balefully sardonic look before he managed to compose himself.

“The legal basis is that _you_ have not been doing your job for years,” Dorian replied briskly. “ _I_ have. You're free to challenge my claim, if you can find a court willing or even qualified to settle the matter, but it comes down to the fact that the people—you remember _them_ , yes?—the people of Tevinter barely remember you exist. You are a _footnote_ , ser. An afterthought. When they write your passage in the history books, I daresay the word 'coward' will feature prominently, but they will perhaps be generous enough to mention you were still the Archon _de jure_ until this point, because Maker knows you have not been the Archon in any other significant capacity since you hid yourself off in Minrathous and left the rest of Tevinter to rot!”

Dorian all but flung the pen at Venalis.

“Now sign the damn papers!” he barked a final time, eyes blazing.

Venalis shrank back, nothing but shock in his rheumy eyes.

 

* * *

 

Afterward, when Venalis left and only Rhiannon and Dorian remained in the room, she placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Dorian,” she said softly.

He shuffled the papers. There was a jerkiness to his movements, as he avoided looking at her.

“I know, I know. I should not have lost my temper,” he said.

“Actually, I think he would have hemmed and hawed and kept us here the entire day if you hadn't,” Rhiannon replied.

Dorian huffed, tension seeping out of his shoulders just slightly.

“You do realize he'll say we bullied him into it,” he pointed out.

“He would have said that anyway,” Rhiannon shrugged. “He seems like the entitled type. But that doesn't mean anyone will listen.”

“No,” Dorian mused. “His own people turned against him in the end, didn't they? I heard about how they forced his hand.” He cleared his throat. “What else did you see in Minrathous? How... how did the city look?”

Rhiannon stayed silent for a few moments, gathering her thoughts. She remembered the smell of putrefaction and human filth more than any of the sights.

“It's no longer the city you remember, Dorian. I'm sorry.”

Dorian sighed.

 

* * *

 

That evening, when she returned to her quarters, there was a present waiting for her on her desk. She almost didn't know what it was at first, but as she recognized it as a bottle and remembered where she'd seen a similar one before, she felt her heart clench.

There was a note next to it, written in a clear, unassuming hand: _Not the same vintage, but the taste is close._

Rhiannon folded the note and pinched the bridge of her nose as she thought. There were still elves with the Inquisition, quite a few servants who grew comfortable with their lives in Skyhold and never left for New Elvhenan. It had to be someone familiar with her comings and goings. The red-headed servant with the weak chin—Fereldan city elf, her family got sold to Tevinter during the Fifth Blight. She had to be the one who brought this here.

Not that the servant was to blame. That blasted man and his _gifts_.

She turned the bottle over in her hands. The exterior was white, smooth like fine porcelain, cool to the touch. There was no label, as such, only beautiful curling letters she couldn't understand painted in cobalt blue.

 

_She placed the box down on his desk, and he looked up from his book only to raise an eyebrow at her._

“ _Yes?” he said._

“ _Have you ever heard of the Black Emporium?” she asked without preamble._

_He watched her for a few beats._

“ _I do not believe so,” he replied eventually._

“ _Perhaps I'll take you there someday,” she said, and grinned from ear to ear. “But first...” She gestured to the box. “This is for you.”_

“ _And what is this?” he said, pulling the box closer. He did not open it yet._

“ _Probably vinegar, by this point,” Rhiannon shrugged. “But the proprietor of the Black Emporium insisted it was the genuine article and well worth the price.”_

_She could see the curiosity in his face as he pried open the lid, and then she could see curiosity turn to astonishment._

“ _If he was telling the truth,” Rhiannon continued, “and that really is a genuine bottle of wine predating the fall of the Elvhen Empire, then I might consider doing business with him again. And I figured you're the most qualified person to make that assessment. So. What do you think?”_

_Solas rose from his chair, and gingerly picked up the bottle, holding it up like something precious. Given how much it cost, she couldn't help but commend for his caution._

“ _It is,” he said. “I never thought I'd ever come across such a thing_ here _,_ now _, it--” He sucked in a breath, suddenly wordless._

“ _Don't get too excited. Like I said, it might be vinegar by this point.”_

_He shook his head._

“ _No,” he said, and smiled at her. “A few thousand years is hardly too long for an Elvhen wine to keep.” He pointed out some glyphs along the bottle's neck, barely visible against the white exterior. “And the bottle yet remains sealed. It should still be good to drink.”_

“ _Well, it's yours now,” she said. “Personally, I'd feel awful popping the cork on some millennia-old relic.”_

_He looked amused._

“ _The entire point of wine is in the drinking, Inquisitor,” he said._

“ _Have at it, then,” she replied, and turned to leave._

_She was stopped by a hand on her wrist, fingers barely touching her sleeve._

“ _Inquisitor...” Solas said, voice gone strangely soft and hesitant. Then the moment was gone, and he was firmer as he asked, “Would you like to share a glass?”_

 

She briefly considered sitting down and getting drunk off her ass. It would serve him right, giving her something like this.

Instead, she put the bottle down, and walked out of the room.

 

* * *

 

If anyone was surprised to see her whisk through the eluvian so late, they didn't show it. The sentinels remained as impassive as always, only their wolves giving her curious looks.

She walked the halls unimpeded, though she did get a few cool looks from guards along the way, especially the closer she got to Fen'Harel's personal chambers. She was sure someone would stop her long before she reached the door, but they didn't. She let herself in.

She'd been to his quarters before, but the clutter surprised her every time. It wasn't messy, but even for their size, the rooms were filled with everything that even briefly caught Fen'Harel's interest.

New Elvhenan was undergoing something of an artistic renaissance at the moment, and Rhiannon figured she could catalog all the latest trends just by the contents of the room. Paintings, sculptures, tapestries and various other skillfully crafted items were interspersed with books, many of them so new their spines hadn't been cracked yet. Even the furniture was entirely of elven make, gifted to him by grateful subjects. She knew, because he could name the source of each one.

It pleased Fen'Harel deeply to be surrounded by such things. She suspected it served to remind him that his people were not lesser for their mortality, and also, perhaps, because he enjoyed basking in their gratitude.

But unlike his possessions, Fen'Harel himself was nowhere in evidence. Rhiannon wandered through the room until she noticed the chair pulled from the desk, and a half-finished glass with an amber liquid inside.

She had the impulse to sit down in his chair and take his place, rifle through his papers a bit and down his drink, just to be spiteful. Instead, she traced the carved vines on the chair's backrest with her fingers, marveling at the detail in each tiny leaf.

When Fen'Harel finally walked in, she was sorry she hadn't brought along the bottle of wine, so she could throw it at his head. He _smiled_ at her, and she folded her arms in return.

“And what was _that_?” she asked. He knew exactly what she meant, and did not pretend otherwise.

“A gift, of course,” he replied. “Did you not like it?”

“I didn't taste it,” she said flatly.

“Saving it for a more fitting occasion, then?” Fen'Harel said, breezing past her to sit down at his desk again.

He leaned back in his chair, relaxed and serene as he looked up at Rhiannon.

“What was the point of it, Fen'Harel?”

“You could say it was... a reminder.” His voice pitched low at the end, and he took her hand to press a gentle kiss across the knuckles.

This threw her off balance almost completely.

“Of what?” she asked.

“That we live in different times now,” he murmured over her fingers.

 

_With the first brush of the lips, she could taste only the wine on their breaths, sweet and tart, tasting of a summer's day. He responded, quietly ravenous as he caught her bottom lip between his, but then he pushed her away, and she didn't understand._

“ _It isn't right,” he said. “We'd both only suffer for it.”_

“ _Solas...” she whispered, heart fluttering wildly in her chest._

“ _In a different place, a different time,” he spoke, almost as if to himself. He shook his head, cupping her cheek. “I am sorry, Inquisitor, this is my fault.” He smiled sadly. “I should have warned you of how potent the wine is.”_

_She'd only had half a glass. It was not the wine. But she took the out he offered her, and shuffled back, to the other side of the sofa._

“ _Must be,” she said neutrally, looking down into the glass she held. Her cheeks felt as if they burned with the same intensity as the red wine within._

 

She took half a step back, and he looked up at her over her knuckles, waiting, expecting something from her...

“You have everything you wanted, and now you're looking for a mistress as well?” she snapped.

“Hardly,” he replied.

He released her hand and rose to his feet. The sweep of his robes made him look taller, more imposing, trim lines emphasizing his slim hips and the width of his shoulder. Rhiannon looked away from him, flustered.

“The only thing I ask of you is a dance.” He said as if it were the simplest thing in the world, a trifle.

“A dance,” she repeated. “When, exactly, do you want this dance?”

He moved slowly, and with a hand only just touching her waist, he guided her along, deeper into his lair.

“There will be a celebration in a few days,” he explained, “to mark the final end to this war.”

“And you want me there,” she surmised.

“Naturally,” he replied, a grin flashing across his face. “The entire court will be there, not to mention countless other notable individuals.”

“And you want me to, what? Make nice with the court?” she said.

“You can make them adore you, Rhiannon,” he said. “Just like Halamshiral.”

She scoffed. Halamshiral. Years ago. Ages. _Different times,_ his words echoed _._

They passed through hanging draperies, and they were in another room. She took notice of the bed first, mostly because it was large and decadent and _right there_. But then he steered her away from it.

“And is the dance going to be my reward, or my punishment?” she asked.

“Neither,” he said. “You can decide on your own what meaning you wish to assign it. _I,_ on the other hand, would simply enjoy the experience of dancing with you.”

He stopped before an armoire, and opened a drawer to take out a set of neatly folded clothing. He handed it to Rhiannon. She gave the bundle a baffled look.

“I would like you to try these on,” he said.

“Right here?” she asked. “ _Now_?”

“I'm not requesting you strip on the spot,” he said, dryly amused, and then pointed her to a privacy screen.

The whole situation had gotten away from her so quickly, that she went before she could even think of a protest. Once she was behind the screen, she didn't see what choice she had but to try on the clothing he'd given her.

The pop of her tunic's clasps sounded obscenely loud in the silence of the room, though, so much that she was grateful when Fen'Harel spoke.

“How is Dorian?” he asked conversationally.

“As well as you might imagine,” she said, squeezing out of her breeches next. “He thought the worst of it was over by now.”

“Minrathous was a festering wound for both our people. There can be healing now.”

“You have an odd grasp of the situation,” she said ruefully.

“True, perhaps. But I do mean to make up for it at least partially. Tell him he may recover anything he wishes from Minrathous.”

She rose on her tiptoes to look at him over the top of the screen.

“The spoils of war not doing it for you anymore?” she said.

“Or perhaps we are above feasting on carrion,” he replied.

They lapsed into silence for a while, as Rhiannon dressed. She stared at the screen instead; it was made of five panels, each carved wood piece depicting a hunting scene. A pack of wolves chased a stag through each of the images, finally killing it in the last one. A strange subject matter for a privacy screen, to be sure, but at least the craftsman who made it hadn't had Orlesian sensibilities. She didn't think she could have taken changing behind one of _those,_ and especially not with Fen'Harel just on the other side.

“I'll tell Dorian,” she said. “But he won't accept the apology.”

“I never said it was an apology.”

“You didn't have to.”

Having finished dressing she stepped out. Fen'Harel looked her up and down with clear appreciation in his eyes.

The sleeveless tunic she was given was gold in color, with a high collar typical of elven fashion, and tight around her torso. The billowy sleeves of the shirt she wore underneath, as well as the loose trousers—cut wide enough to resemble a skirt—were both in white, as was the stitching across the breast of the tunic, depicting the symbol of the Inquisition.

“You don't expect me to go barefoot, I hope,” she said, self-conscious.

“You will have boots, no worry,” he said. “But first...This is for you.”

He has a strip of material in his hands, in the same white, and when he moved to wrap it around her waist, she understood it was a sash. He tied the knot, and adjusted the end over her hip, to best display the gold-thread embroidery.

“Perfect,” he said, and turned her around to face a full-length mirror. “Wouldn't you agree?”

She stood up straighter, pulling her shoulders back, and she inspected herself in the mirror. She looked... good. Wonderful. Very much not like anything she ever looked like before.

But her attention was drawn to Fen'Harel, who stood behind her, hands on her shoulders. He was looking not at the mirror, but at _her,_ and there was longing she wasn't used to seeing on his face.

She turned her head towards him, and their gazes locked, freezing them both in place. They stood there for a long time, looking at each other, tension crackling between them.

“I'll come to your celebration,” she said. “We'll see about the dance.”

He made a pleased sound deep in his throat. He moved away from her only to take her hand again, and kiss the middle of her palm.

“I will await,” he said, holding her hand against his cheeks for a few moments more.

 


	3. The Silence of Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was running long, so I split it in two because the lead-up to the ball kind of spawned a life of its own. But anyway, have some depressing stuff before we get to the party.
> 
> Warning for death, implied gore and emetophobia.

_We are a People_

_Bound. Not shackled—going_

_Forth._

 

_We are a People_

_Held. Not hedged in, but_

_Embraced._

 

_We are a People_

_Dread. Both feared and held_

_In Awe._

 

\--Segunda of Vyrantium, Elvhen bard, “There Once Were Dragons: Poems at the Dawn of a New Age”, 9:97 Dragon/49 RA

 

* * *

 

 

She should have discussed the issue with her advisers before she accepted Fen'Harel's invitation. She knew this, even as they all looked at her incredulously from around the war table.

Cullen balked.

“Absolutely not. You don't know what you're walking into,” he said.

“This could be an opportunity,” Leliana interjected. “Our information out of Arlathan has so far been sparse and rife with misdirection.”

“I suppose it _is_ too late to refuse,” Josephine added cautiously. “And the political benefits which could be derived from it cannot be overlooked.”

But she fidgeted with her pen, worried, considering the implications. What she did not add was how the Inquisition's close association with New Elvhenan had drawn the mistrust of many of their allies, and had cooled diplomatic relations considerably, especially once the Inquisitor made it clear she would not lead an Exalted March against the elves. This would only worsen the problem.

The only one who remained quiet was Dorian, arms folded as he regarded Rhiannon from across the war table. He looked calm for now, but she recognized the storm roiling just under the surface.

“There is another thing,” she said, and relayed Fen'Harel's offer concerning Minrathous.

This finally got a reaction from Dorian; he gave a contemptuous bark of laughter.

“So he means to appease me with _books_ ,” he said. “A bone thrown to the pitiful Tevinters scrounging under everyone's tables for scraps!”

“Not just books,” she said calmly. “Anything within the city walls.”

“Including the bones of my people, I presume!” Dorian barked.

“Yes,” Rhiannon replied.

The temperature seemed to drop with that one softly spoken word. Dorian could be more demonstrative, but Rhiannon's anger burned cold, and there was the crackle of frost around her fingers as she gripped the edge of the war table.

They stood locked in that moment, looking at each other, before Dorian huffed.

“By your leave,” he said, stalking out of the room.

The rest of the advisers remained silent. Rhiannon now gripped the table to keep herself upright.

If it had been Fen'Harel's intention to drive a wedge through the Inquisition's leadership by taking advantage of her weakness, then he'd succeeded. The worst part of it was, however, that she couldn't tell if that  _was_ his intention. Had she risked losing a friend over nothing more than the honey-tongued promise of a dance?

 

* * *

 

It really was bones, in the end.

Where once thousands lived in Minrathous, by the time of the surrender, only a few hundred remained. The soporati who'd made up the majority of the city's population laid in open mass graves, in the very districts they inhabited when alive.

Rhiannon was glad she'd suggested to Dorian that he go to the Circle of Magi. The Inquisition troops accompanying her were pale-faced and quietly horrified by the sights they encountered, and it wasn't as if they'd never seen similar things before. But traces of magic lingered on the corpses, dark and cloying, whispering in the minds of anyone who approached. Whatever they'd been sacrificed for, it couldn't have done the magisters much good.

The sun beat down mercilessly, oppressive summer heat making all the smells worse. There were flies everywhere, as large and bloated as the Minrathians had been emaciated. A few of the mass graves had been repurposed as garbage pits at some point, the dead receiving no more respect from the magisters in death than they had in life.

Somewhere between the heat, the constant buzz of flies and the smell, Rhiannon leaned against a wall and vomited everything she'd eaten for breakfast, however scant. After that, throughout the day, she would have to stop and retch and heave, having nothing left in her stomach but feeling it clench, trying to turn itself inside out regardless.

Nobody else was doing much better, either. She counted several soldiers with the same problem as her, and the rest were sweaty and red-faced, swatting away flies with misery etched over their features.

She had them pull out of the worst parts, and guiding them down a street where the smells let up and the flies were fewer in number, she heard several sighs of relief.

Going house by house would have been too time consuming, but canvasing every fifth house, they managed to recover heirlooms and journals and even coins. Tevinter currency was not in circulation anymore, but it could still be melted down for metal. Wagons were filled up.

“Your Worship... what about the bodies?” someone asked—Commander Varron. Good, proper Fereldan, Commander Varron, the kind of man who prided himself on putting his boots on one at a time. Now he was pale and glassy-eyed, face contorted to disgust.

“Have the alchemists whip up something with a good burn. I'll have Revered Mother Alleine here to do the final rites, and then we set the fires.”

Commander Varron nodded, and went to send a message.

She'd burn the entire city if she could, building after historical, irreplaceable building. But it wouldn't erase the horror of what had taken place, and so she resigned herself to the necessity of having people watch the fires and keep them from spreading.

They made their way further into the city. Noon was wretched hot, and they stopped to rest and drink—nobody was much in the mood for eating, though they'd brought along field rations.

The afternoon marched on, however, and the heat relented. As evening rolled in, Rhiannon walked up to the former temple that housed the Minrathous Circle of Magi until recently. Here, Inquisition forces were still loading wagons with books and artifacts.

She was pointed Dorian's way, and she found him on the highest level of the building, in what had once been the First Enchanter's office.

It was—pleasant there. The air was cool, smelling only of incense, faintly. There were no flies, no corpses. The clean luster of the furniture felt surreal after the sights she'd seen that day.

Dorian sat at the First Enchanter's desk, going through a leather-bound tome. He was framed by two dragon statues on the walls, their gazes fixed on some point just in front of the desk, where anyone wanting to talk to the First Enchanter would presumably be standing.

Rhiannon felt her feet take her to that point, not compulsion, but morbid fascination.

“Shouldn't you be back, preparing for your little soiree?” Dorian asked before looking up. When he did, his scowl all but vanished, to be replaced by worry. “Rhiannon?”

She couldn't imagine what a sight she made, but she didn't look at him, she looked at the dragon statues with their accusing eyes. Which gods did they represent? By what measure were they weighing her soul?

How strange that she wondered about that.

“I'm sorry, Dorian,” she said softly.

Dorian rose from the seat. In a few short strides he was upon her, hugging her tightly enough to make her bones creak in protest.

“Don't be daft,” he said. “You were never the one I wanted an apology from.”

 

* * *

 

She took scalding baths every day, and still did not feel she managed to scrub Minrathous off her skin.

While she attended an Elvhen ball, the pyres would be burning. There was a morality play in there somewhere. Perhaps some enterprising elven playwright was working on it right at the very moment.

She dressed herself, but someone else did the hair.  _ Something severe _ , she requested, but the hairdresser clicked her tongue and said it would be a pity with such nice clothes and her pretty face, and ended up coiling it up at the back of her head.

In the end, Rhiannon was uncertain she even wanted to go. She was gnawed by not only guilt, but also a burgeoning feeling that she would only be seen as further compromised by the Inquisition's human allies. It was already perceived that she cozied up to the elves more than necessary when the Inquisition had overseen the negotiations for the Tevinter Imperium's surrender. Her impartiality was seen as betrayal in the prevailing anti-elven sentiment of the time.

There was a stunning number of people who actually wanted a war with New Elvhenan, who drooled with anticipation at the chance to strike down some 'uppity knife-ears', who wanted to prove that Tevinter's fall had been a fluke and that humans still held dominion over Thedas. Those people were, as a rule, astoundingly foolish. But they were also inconveniently numerous.

Assailed by uncertainty as she was, she almost changed her mind on the spot. What would Fen'Harel do if she simply never went to his ridiculous celebration? Come and drag her there himself?

Not quite, but perhaps he suspected she would have second thoughts, because he did the next worst thing.

Just as she was pacing the floor, furiously trying to think of a way out of the situation, a servant knocked on the door, and told her her presence was urgently required down in the eluvian room.

Having an actual crisis to solve almost felt like a relief, but the feeling didn't last for long, because once she arrived to the eluvian room, she discovered that Fen'Harel had sent General Victus to Skyhold.

Victus was chatting with Josephine as Rhiannon came into the room. For once, he was not dressed like three shades of gaudy, instead wearing a subdued set of pale blue robes trimmed with silver, striking against the brown of his skin. Even his eyes were carefully lined with kohl, and he looked, for once, like one of the more sober and serious members of Fen'Harel's court.

Except when he saw Rhiannon over Josephine's shoulder, he grinned at her in a way that bordered on the indecent.

“Inquisitor,” he drawled, his voice very serious compared to his expression.

“Ah, Your Worship,” Josephine turned, hands delicately clasped together—the only sign of worry she showed, and only because Rhiannon had learned her tells over the years of their acquaintance. “General Victus is here to be your escort.”

He bobbed into a shallow bow, and then offered his arm.

“Shall we leave right away?” he asked.

Rhiannon shared a look with Josephine. In truth, they could not leave soon enough. Rumor would already be rampant, and with a considerable number of Tevinters in Skyhold, there was bound to be at least one foolish enough to do something. Whatever Fen'Harel's intentions, he could not have sent a better person to guarantee they'd be out the door—or through the mirror as it were—any sooner.

“Yes, let's,” she said, taking the general's arm.

She threw one last apologetic look to Josephine before they passed through the eluvian.

The unnatural feel of the crossroads was almost a relief. The air was muted, in the same way it was when heavy snows absorbed sounds. There were others arriving at the crossroads as well, headed the same way in groups of two or three. They spoke and laughed together, but their words did not carry.

Victus guided her in the same direction as the groups.

“We're not going to Arlathan,” Rhiannon observed.

“A change of plans,” Victus said. “We're going to Qarinus instead.”

“Any particular reason for the change of venue?” she asked.

“Fen'Harel thought to honor me,” Victus said, chuckling to himself as if he'd heard a good joke, “since Qarinus is my city of origin. But mostly, I imagine it is for the comfort of our human guests.”

Because there was no Setheneran in Qarinus, Rhiannon knew. There were still humans, elf-blooded or otherwise, living in pockets throughout the former Tevinter. They were either soporati who'd been there since before the war or freed slaves who decided to try their luck with the elves rather than journey to human lands.

They were the inconvenient race traitors the southern lands tried to ignore existed, because they muddied the narrative of cruel elves rising up to slaughter all the humans. They were the small folk who did not care who was in charge, as long as the war stopped and they were allowed to live in freedom. Tevinters against Tevinter, as they were testily called by the more patriotic of their countrymen, and during the war, more than a few spies and saboteurs had been drawn from these ranks.

Victus, of course, had the loyalty of many of them. His war started as a slave rebellion, long before the end goal of a new elven empire became apparent to anyone.

“Does it bother you to go back to where you were once a slave?” Rhiannon asked.

His smile turned sharp.

“Whether it bothers me or not, I can't deny what Qarinus represents.”

She did not need to reflect on that for long to know what he meant.

“It will always be important to you,” she said. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though it did not reach his eyes.

There was a loose line forming before the eluvian going to Qarinus, and they took their place at the tail end of it, waiting their turn.

“Would it shock you to find out,” Victus said after a brief silence, “that I still consider myself Tevinter?”

“Considering the Imperium is dead by your hand, at the very least you have a strange way of showing it.”

He laughed, loud enough to draw the attention of the couple in front of them. The elven lady in Orlesian finery cast a glance their way, before turning to her companion and tapping his wrist with her fan in some incomprehensible message.

“ _Was_ it by my hand, I wonder?” Victus said. “Or was it by the wolf's teeth the entire time?”

“If Fen'Harel is holding this ball in your honor,” she said, “then it's obvious which answer he favors.” Though perhaps not which one he _believed_ —but she kept that part to herself.

“Nothing is obvious with Fen'Harel, I don't think,” Victus said dryly. “Ah, but you know him longer than the rest of us. You must have insight into him that we do not.”

“He hates the taste of tea,” she replied primly, “and he once accidentally set his coattails on fire.”

Victus laughed again, more quietly this time.

“I hope he pokes the she-wolf and gets the claws, Inquisitor,” Victus whispered in her ear, just before they slipped through the eluvian.

 


	4. A Waltz For The Wolf

  _These elves practice politics like a people who have been starving for it. (...) As for the Wolf, I will say nothing of him save that he gets what he wants, and often you will not know what that is until it is already in his hand._

\--Alvo Pentaghast, Nevarran envoy to New Elvhenan, in a letter to his successor, 9:57 Dragon/9 RA

 

 

* * *

 

 

Rhiannon wasn't sure what the building had been before—a palace? A temple to one of the Old Gods? There were dragon statues littering the place, but that tended to describe most of what had been Tevinter.

The angular architecture was softened that evening by elven sensibilities, which favored curved lines and organic shapes. For the occasion, the building had been decorated in delicate crystalline vines, like unmelting ice, wrapped around pillars and creeping up walls, reflecting the soft glow of wisps lighting the air. Glyphs covered the tiled marble, their purpose obscure even to Rhiannon, despite how closely she'd been studying the subject lately. Only Fen'Harel was likely to know what they all meant, and he was careful who he shared such knowledge with.

They were announced as they entered the ballroom, the herald first prattling off General Victus's long list of titles, and then hers—longer only by dint of the fact that she'd had more time to accumulate them.

Their appearance together stirred the whispers of everyone in the room. There was nothing to do about the situation now than use it to her advantage, and so she inclined her head graciously at the crowd and affected a faint, aloof smile.

“And now I release you unto the room,” Victus murmured to her with a lopsided grin, and with another shallow bow, he turned and headed in the direction of Ser Lirien.

Left to her own devices, Rhiannon drifted over to the tables of food, trying to find a good vantage point. Musicians played their string instruments unobtrusively, providing no more than a pleasant background to the hum of conversation, and she feigned mild interest in their playing as she watched the rest of the room from the corner of her eye.

There was a good mix tonight of landed Orlesian elves and Elvhen nobility, as it were. The differences between them were obvious, as the Orlesian elves preferred Orlesian fashions, with all the fancy dress, masks and ridiculous hats that implied, whereas the native Elvhen nobles preferred the robes which had been in fashion since Fen'Harel's ascension. The two groups eyed each other warily.

Rhiannon wondered if Briala might make an appearance—it seemed the kind of event the Marquise would be invited to. Fen'Harel had a healthy dose of respect for the woman who'd managed, in just a few short years, to better the standing of elves in Orlais, but from Rhiannon gleaned, Briala was also a very busy elf these days.

Also in attendance, Rhiannon recognized the Antivan ambassador to New Elvhenan, chatting with another human she was sure must be his Nevarran counterpart. The two nations had opened trade relations with New Elvhenan over the past years, after seeing the Free Marches and the dwarves profit massively off the nascent empire.

There were representatives of the Merchants' Guild as well, clustered in a corner, their hoods drawn up.  Hardly surprising. The lyrium trade was booming in New Elvhenan.

She was tempted to sidle up to them, see what gossip they had to share. If she didn't, it was only because she noticed she was being sidled up to by someone else instead.

Rhiannon twisted on her heel, and the elf started, nearly dropping her drink. She wore colorful orange and red robes, and perhaps most curiously of all, her youthful face was covered in fanning branches of blue ink, bright against the olive of her skin—vallaslin.

Many of the Dalish were still as suspicious as ever of the Dread Wolf they'd been taught to fear their entire lives, but of those who chose to follow him, such as Ser Lirien, Rhiannon couldn't say she'd met any who still had their vallaslin, especially not after their true origin was revealed. It garnered the young elf looks almost as strange as Rhiannon herself was getting.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," Rhiannon said, and introduced herself.

"I'm aware of who you are!" the elf chirped, giving Rhiannon a friendly grin.

___I___   _ _bet__   _ _you do__ , Rhiannon thought, because otherwise she probably wouldn't be trying to approach some strange  _shem_  at a party. But Rhiannon hoped that if she said her name, she would be extended the same courtesy.

It took a few seconds, but the Dalish caught on.

"Oh! Phaedra Lavellan, Your Worship." After another moment's thought, she extended her hand.

Rhiannon accepted it and gave Phaedra a firm shake.

"I've read a couple of your books," Rhiannon told her, and Phaedra's face lit up.

"Have you?"

She didn't hide how pleased she was, though it couldn't have been the first time anyone had said such things to her—Phaedra Lavellan was already known as 'the elven Genitivi' in some circles, and though she was not yet as prolific as him, it was merely because she was only at the beginning of her writing career.

And her grip on Rhiannon's hand did not loosen.

"Oh, but there's someone you really must meet," Phaedra said, and tucking Rhiannon's hand into the crook of her arm, hauled the Inquisitor off.

Rhiannon followed, somewhat perplexed but mostly curious. Since she did not have any other concrete plans for the evening she might as well see where this took her.

"Delhanis, have you met the Inquisitor?" Phaedra asked, elbowing her way into a group talking quietly behind a dragon statue.

Delhanis, another robed elf, and one Rhiannon pegged as Dalish in spite of his lack of vallaslin, gave the Inquisitor a frazzled look.

"I have not, and I hope you haven't nabbed the poor woman and dragged her all the way here for my sake," he said.

The other two elves were ones in Orlesian dresses, their faces concealed both by masks and by fans held up to their mouths. Rhiannon still felt their smiles.

"Wasn't like you were going to introduce yourself," Phaedra grumbled, before turning to Rhiannon with a bright expression. "Delhanis is my lethallin. He always said he admired the way you healed that great big hole in the sky."

"I said that once," Delhanis interjected, openly despairing of Phaedra, "and that was years ago."

"Well, you still do, though, right?" Phaedra said.

"The Breach is certainly still healed," Delhanis admitted. His eyes flicked to Rhiannon, and then away again, plainly embarrassed.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Delhanis," Rhiannon said, "but if that's all, I will not intrude on you any longer."

"There is no need to leave!" one of the other elves said quickly, her voice carrying a heavy Orlesian accent. "It is not every day we get to meet the famed Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste."

To have an Orlesian express personal interest in her always filled Rhiannon with a sense of wariness. The Orlesian elves were of an especially canny sort, most of them former servants to the most apt players of the Game in Orlais. Unnoticed, from the shadows, they'd learned to play even better than their masters, and from the same position they'd accumulated enough blackmail material to last them a lifetime. The elves were moving up in the world, and Tevinter refugees now filled the positions they'd once held--a reversal of fortune whose irony did not escape anyone on the face of Thedas.

She needed to tread carefully, but political maneuvering could go both ways, so Rhiannon inclined her head, accepting the invitation.

"If it would please you," she said graciously.

 

* * *

 

Apprehension melted away with familiarity; and there was much familiar to Rhiannon about the situation. Political intrigue was remarkably similar wherever you went, and it brought to mind a remark Solas made long ago, at Halamshiral.  _Only the costumes change_.

By the end of the hour, Rhiannon had secured an alliance with the Comtesse of Chalaine, one of the most politically involved of the new elven nobility in Orlais; she'd managed to invite Phaedra Lavellan to Skyhold and made it seem like her idea; and she'd roped a member of the Elvhen nobility, Lord Hestor of Vyrantium, into conversation with the Orlesians.

That last one was quite the achievement, because throughout the room, the two sides kept to themselves, their distaste for each other palpable. The Orlesians were seen as foppish by the Elvhen, too conservative in an effort to appease the humans. The Elvhen, in turn, were seen as arrogant and reactionary by the Orlesians, too proud of themselves by half.

Rhiannon saw both sides as potentially leading the elves to political disaster if they allowed the rift between them to deepen. Perhaps such a conflict could be played to the Inquisition's advantage, yes, but Rhiannon was a mediator by nature.

The Comtesse of Chalaine and Lord Hestor launched into a detailed discussion of Antivan politics and the possibility of pressuring other human nations into granting elves lands and titles. Though they disagreed in the details, Rhiannon steered them towards common ground. If they noticed the manipulation, they made no show of it. 

Phaedra did notice, however, and smiled brightly at Rhiannon the entire time. When Rhiannon excused herself to drift over to another group, and repeat the performance, Phaedra drifted along. The Dalish managed all by herself to lure a few Orlesian fans of her writing into talking with members of Fen'Harel's court. She picked up the game incredibly fast, and Rhiannon was soon glad to have her along.

It would be a busy night for the both of them.

 

* * *

 

Rhiannon and Phaedra were by themselves for once, discussing the selection of hors d'oeuvres on a table. Between the two of them, they only managed to identify about half of the stuff, but they tried a little of everything, and were equally delighted by the variety. It was the first time Rhiannon had made a friend over food and casual political machinations.

Then Fen'Harel was announced, and the entire room's attention, including theirs, was drawn to the doors.

He swaggered in with the kind of confidence that could only be honed over thousand of years. His robes were resplendent, of course, gold thread gleaming in the light. Rhiannon could almost hear General Victus's good-natured scoff at the display; he might have been the guest of honor, but nobody could command a room the way Fen'Harel did.

"He must be very proud of all you've done for him tonight," Phaedra remarked, as she popped a piece of fruit into her mouth.

Rhiannon tore her eyes away from Fen'Harel to stare at Phaedra. There was no guile in the elf's face.

"I didn't do anything for Fen'Harel," Rhiannon said.

"Truly?" Phaedra frowned slightly, as if surprised by this answer.

"I'm not doing or have ever been doing anything for him," Rhiannon continued.

"If you say so," Phaedra shrugged, and dropped the subject.

But her words lingered, and Rhiannon felt a tinge of annoyance as she glanced back at Fen'Harel and noticed him looking at her.

She was not doing any of this for him, and if anyone thought so, then more the fool they.

"Phaedra," Rhiannon said, "would you like to dance?"

 

* * *

 

Just to be contrary, that night, Rhiannon danced with anyone who was not Fen'Harel. She took to the dance floor with a baron, an Elvhen provincial governor, with Phaedra two more times, and once even with General Victus, who knew exactly what she was doing and so squeezed her waist in a manner that was a bit more than friendly. The rest of the time, as Fen'Harel moved about the room, so did she, maintaining her distance from him while making it seem like it was only by pure accident that they were never in each other's vicinity.

The general mood was notably more gregarious than had been at the beginning of the night. Rhiannon found herself getting drawn into discussions by other people, the subject shifting from politics and polite chit-chat to more personal subjects.

She was raptly following a discussion between Phaedra, Ser Lirien and a few others, and so did not notice Fen'Harel make his appearance at her side until he spoke.

"Inquisitor," he greeted. Rhiannon willed her face not to turn red as she nodded back.

Phaedra had only just finished telling about some of the journeys her clan took through the Free Marches.

"You seem remarkably cosmopolitan for a Dalish," Fen'Harel addressed Phaedra.

"I suppose so," Phaedra replied, perhaps thrown by the fact that she'd never been called 'cosmopolitan' before.

"And yet, you still wear vallaslin," Fen'Harel continued innocently.

It was not quite a question, so much as a trap. Perhaps he did it out of jealousy for all the dances Rhiannon had asked of Phaedra. At any rate, all eyes turned to her. 

She was hardly ruffled by the attention. She grinned, an easy, girlish grin which made the fanning branches over her cheekbones clump together.

“I have chosen to keep it for what it meant after,” Phaedra replied, “rather than what it meant before.”

Fen'Harel looked intrigued. "How do you figure?"

“I can understand that you missed much during your slumber, My Lord. But imagine, if you will, the generations born after your rebellion. Those young, quickling elves who had never had slavery carved into their features. Who had only ever seen the vallaslin on the faces of their parents, their grandparents, their respected elders—people they loved, people who loved them back."

Phaedra's fingers touched her cheek, and her gaze seemed far away.

"Imagine," she said, "being one of those young elves, tracing the patterns on their beloved elders' faces and thinking 'I wish to be like them, to have their strength and their pride, to belong with them'. It is that which I think of when I look into the mirror, My Lord. I think that pain may be forgotten, but love and unity endures. I think that, despite what you may think, you'd succeeded beyond what you imagined, for you gave the People a chance at erasing that pain and replacing it with better things.”

Everyone had fallen into silence, listening to the little scholar, and even Fen'Harel was frowning thoughtfully. Then, his expression smoothed out, and he nodded once, in acknowledgment; in respect.

Ser Lirien touched her own face, thoughtful and a bit sad, tracing the skin once marked by vallaslin. Yet she said nothing, and Rhiannon felt she was intruding on something personal. She looked away from Ser Lirien, and her gaze came to Fen'Harel.

He looked back, serene but for the smirk at the corner of his mouth.

"Rhiannon," Phaedra said suddenly, "would you care for another dance?"

"Of course," Rhiannon said, and accepted Phaedra's hand. She resisted to urge to stick her tongue out at Fen'Harel as she passed him.

 

* * *

 

It was a bright, warm dawn by the time people began leaving. One by one, they paid their respect to their host, and departed.

Rhiannon retreated to a balcony, dragging a chair in a hidden corner and watching the sun rise over the city. It smelled like the sea, so very different from Skyhold. Soon, she would have to return and report on everything she'd seen and done that night. Soon, she would have to say her goodbyes to Fen'Harel, and have him politely return the gesture. Soon.

What she did not expect was for him to find her first. He walked onto the balcony and paused by the banister, looking out over Qarinus with his back to her.

They kept silent for a while.

"I knew you could do it," he said after a while.

Rhiannon sighed.

"And just what are you prattling about?" she asked, with no real heat behind her words.

He looked sidelong at her, turning his face only enough that she could see he was smiling.

"I told you you could make them adore you."

"They do not  _adore_  me," she replied tersely.

"They wouldn't want you to know it," Fen'Harel said, "but they most certainly do. And I am pleased Phaedra does as well."

"And what difference does it make to you what Phaedra feels for me?"

Fen'Harel turned around, leaning against the banister and crossing his arms across his chest. He was amused, and Rhiannon was irritated to the point of distraction by it.

Or maybe irritated was not exactly the right word.

"Such a talented young woman, wouldn't you agree?" he said. "It is about time she had a patron."

Rhiannon narrowed her eyes at him.

"You bribed her to spy on me tonight," she gritted out.

"You misunderstand," Fen'Harel replied, perfectly good-natured. "Tonight was her audition. I already knew she was a dab hand with a pen, but that does not guarantee survival at court. I told her nothing of you and had no particular expectations of her tonight. I merely told her to impress me."

Rhiannon rubbed her eyes. They stung from lack of sleep, as her feet ached from too much dancing.

"You and your court will be the death of me," she muttered.

"And you and your Inquisition will be the death of me," he replied. "Now that we've established that..." He extended his hand. "Do you have another dance in you?"

"I do, but my feet do not," she replied, taking his hand.

As he pulled her out of her seat, she felt the tingle of a healing spell, traveling up her arm and through her body like warm honey. It took away her tiredness and her body's aches.

"Haven't all the musicians gone home?" Rhiannon asked.

"Come with me," he said.

His hand was warm, solid. He laced his fingers with hers. Rhiannon was amazed by how much she enjoyed the sensation. There was an intimacy in the gesture she hadn't expected. She couldn't remember the last time she held hands with anyone, but certainly it had never been with him.

He took her through the ballroom, empty and echoing with each footfall, and then to the eluvian. He whispered to it, something she did not quite hear, and when they stepped through it, they were in his quarters in Arlathan. 

"I'll remind you I only agreed to a dance," she said, "and only just barely that."

"I know," he replied.

Fen'Harel gestured towards an artifact on his desk, a flare of magic around his fingers. It was something like a stone, oval and smooth. It started humming, and then beautiful music started filtering through the room. 

He turned, adjusted his hold on her hand, and placed his other at her waist. She placed a hand on his shoulder, before looking up at him, into his eyes soft with affection. 

They did not start dancing right away, simply looking at each other. It would have taken just the slightest gesture to lean up and into him, to press her lips against his. She could taste the memory of wine on her lips, delicious and painful. She could remember the heat of his mouth that he'd allowed her to feel for only a second.

"Are we going to dance?" she asked, voice low.

"Yes, of course," he said abruptly, as if jarred out of his thoughts. "But first, I would like to formally open negotiations for a kiss."

She sighed and leaned her forehead against his. He looked surprised, as if he'd been expecting her to do it right then, but he did not press, and waited.

"It's something to consider," she replied, giving him a lopsided smile.

"Is it?" he asked, his gaze lingering on her lips.

"Yes," she said, and her hand moved from his shoulder to cup the back of his head. "And deliberations are over."

She pulled him into a kiss, and he pulled her tightly against his body, and in one breathless instant they were clinging to each other, unwilling to let go for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this fic, but I will probably be writing more in this AU, drabbles and such (you can make requests if you'd like something in particular for this AU?). Thank you for bearing with me, and for all your kudos and comments!


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